Page 21 of Veiled Flames (Destiny of Dragons #1)

Fifteen

Rosomon

O ur caravan is comprised of seven wagons of volunteer recruits now, we joined others on the road, and I have no idea how much farther we’ll travel. This valley, where we’ve stopped for the night, must still be in Verax, but the terrain defies the atlases I’ve studied in the castle library.

I sit for our evening meal, and as the sun prepares to set behind the mountains, disappointment pulls me down harder against the cushion between me and the ground.

Three days have passed since I kissed Master Saxon, and I’ve had no sign of him, and have been deprived of the opportunity to accept my invitation to his tent.

Given my unwanted and inexplicable reaction to Tynan, I no longer understand a thing about my body—especially not its reactions to men—and for the first time I deeply regret my lack of experience.

Saxon awoke in me a deep curiosity about what men might do with women—and that’s the only explanation for why I felt stirrings around Tynan.

My body acted in complete opposition to my feelings for that man.

While Tynan held me pinned against the cliff face, his hard rod pressed against my thigh. Had I not touched Saxon’s rod, I wouldn’t have recognized what I was feeling, but it was unmistakable. And Tynan’s stiffness is even more confounding than my own body’s response.

After living with men for eight days, I know that particular part of a man is most often like a limp, uncooked sausage.

Saxon told me they only turn into rods when a man desires a woman, and yet Tynan does not desire me.

Not only does he think I’m a boy, he most certainly hates me, and the feeling is mutual.

Next time I see Saxon, I shall ask him if there are other reasons a man’s rod might stiffen. I must avoid all such situations in the future—especially now that I live amongst men and am masquerading as one.

“Look!” someone calls out.

I glance skyward, and butterflies dance in my belly.

Saxon and Surath are circling above us. Her vast wings flap, beating the air as she rounds the valley.

The setting sun tinges her underbelly shades of purple and pink, and glints off the sharp spikes on her head, neck and tail.

These beasts don’t need fire to induce terror.

She lands in the clearing, two furlongs away from where we’ve set up camp for the night. The servants pull Saxon’s tent from a wagon, then they carry it across the field, preparing to pitch it. The sight of his tent turns the butterflies in my belly into a fleet of dragons, swooping and flapping.

With each day that’s passed, I’ve become more certain of the decision I made that night in his tent.

I’m even more determined to discover how it feels to have a man’s rod stab my cleft.

Rushing through my sup, I say yes to a second cup of ale, enjoying its malty taste and the way it calms the dragons in my belly and loosens the steel bands in my neck.

After the servants pitch Saxon’s tent, they extend a rainfly to its side, even though there’s not a cloud in the sky.

I try not to give my constant attention to his tent, but as darkness falls, Saxon enters with a small oil lamp, and the rain flap alters the shape of his shadow cast on the canvas.

Was that flap there the night we kissed?

I can’t remember. One way or another it will increase our privacy.

Very thoughtful. And even better, I take it as an indication that he hopes I’ll join him.

As the Great Western star appears in the sky, the other men grab their bedrolls, most of them choosing to sleep outside, versus inside the stuffy wagon. Samyull might be the only one who’s still sleeping inside every night, and while I would appreciate the solitude, I value the fresh air.

I set up my bed and lie back, impatiently watching the stars move as my compeers joke and talk, and some of them start to fall asleep. Finally, Egon’s snores are no longer waking everyone each time he snorts, and so I slide out of my bedroll and creep carefully across the field toward Saxon’s tent.

As I get nearer, my belly squirms, as if snakes have replaced the dragons and butterflies, and I press my hand against it, willing it to quiet.

Fear and excitement battle for dominance in my thoughts, and I tell myself it’s natural to feel both.

I’m about to experience something new, something exciting, something potentially wonderful based on his kisses and the touch of his hand between my legs.

Light spreads from a small fire on the far side of his tent, and when I’m less than fifteen spans away, my nerves seize me, halting my progress.

What if I don’t enjoy this act? Or what if Saxon doesn’t enjoy it with me?

He steps out from behind the tent, and my breath catches.

The soft firelight kisses his golden hair and highlights his shape, covered only by his linen chemise.

The garment’s hem brushes his thickly powerful thighs, revealing so much bare skin below.

Curly hair dusts his exposed legs, and my insides clench with a sharp stab that spreads warmth inside me.

The stab is want. I want this. I want him .

As we stand, watching each other, my uncertainty returns.

Given his state of undress, should I grant him his privacy?

But before I decide, he beckons, his fingers flickering in the soft light.

Slowly, not taking my eyes off his imposing body, I somehow put one foot in front of the other, mindlessly moving until I’m directly in front of his tent. Once there, I look down, suddenly shy and feeling as if I’m intruding, as if I’ve made a huge error in judgement.

“Come,” he says softly. “Your timing is perfect.”

“How so?” My gaze rises, quickly brushing over his half-nude body to seek his eyes. His head gestures to the side and he disappears behind the tent.

I take another step forward, and then hold the gei line, ducking under it as I round the tents corner. Behind his tent, steam rises from a copper basin, resting on a wooden tripod. Another tripod, forged from iron, holds a bubbling pot over the low flames of his fire.

“I’ve just bathed,” he says softly. “When I saw your approach, I prepared a fresh basin, so you too can bathe.”

“Oh, how lovely!” My entire body relaxes and brightens at the anticipation of clean, warm water caressing my skin.

Each time we stop, the servants place basins outside the wagons, but they’re shared by everyone and are always cold and dirty by the time I reach one.

Plus, I don’t dare disrobe, so I’m limited to washing my hands, face and neck.

“I’m glad you’re pleased.” Happiness paints Saxon’s ruggedly handsome face. “And even more pleased that you have joined me tonight.” His voice deepens, and the sound vibrates across the short space between us, stirring my belly.

I approach the basin, finding a sponge inside and the faint scent of lavender rising with the steam. Lifting the sponge, I squeeze out some of the excess moisture and then eagerly wipe it over my face and neck.

I long to remove my clothes so I can wash more of my body. I turn toward Saxon, finding his gaze hotly focused on me.

“Are you certain no one can see me back here?” I raise my hand to the top clasp of my leather jerkin.

“I can see you.” His deep voice rumbles, and my insides flutter.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“We are alone.” He takes a step toward me, and the firelight dances through his golden locks. “No candidate, nor servant, will dare approach my tent.”

“I approached it.”

He chuckles softly. “That you did.”

We look into each other’s eyes for what feels like a very long time, so long that I almost forget the welcoming basin of water.

“Forgive me.” Bowing slightly, he takes a step back. “I’ll grant you some privacy to bathe.” My eyes focus on his lips as he says this, reminding me of our kiss. It’s as if my body is re-experiencing that moment, and my tongue laps my upper lip as if hoping to prolong the sensations.

“Unless…” he says.

I struggle to find air. “Unless?”

“Unless you would like some assistance.” He shifts his posture. Almost coming to attention, he clasps his hands behind his back. “As a princess—” he bows slightly “—I expect you are not accustomed to disrobing or bathing on your own.”

“No, I am not.” Excitement stirs inside me at the thought of his hands performing the act of removing my clothes, an act I’ve never considered intimate before. Nurse and a long parade of Dressers have always performed the task.

I resolve to match his conduct. If he is taking on the role of my servant, then I shall play my part too. This is normal, I tell myself. Saxon is simply helping me like many servants have before.

I lift my arms a few finger-widths from my sides, taking the posture I typically do with Dresser or Nurse.

As he steps forward, a tremble builds inside me, like the entire world is shaking.

My trembling’s not from fear, but from a heady mixture of nerves and need—even though I’m not certain exactly what it is that I need.

“With your permission,” he murmurs.

I nod.

Saxon starts with the clasp in the middle of my jerkin, his thick but nimble fingers making quick work of the brass fitting there. His fingers hesitate for a moment, as if wondering whether to move up or down.

This powerful and experienced master is so self-assured, always in command of everyone in our caravan, and this momentary pause reveals another dimension to Saxon.

Could it be that he’s nervous too?

As if refuting that thought, he deftly undoes the other clasps, leaving my jerkin hanging open.

The fresh air swirls under it to cool my upper body and tighten my paps under their bindings.

I keep my eyes on Saxon, but he respectfully averts his gaze, and my breaths come more quickly as he removes the leather garment, setting it aside.